qb.ii

last night’s dream brought me to you, david. not the
you you were when i knew you and loved you, but the you you are now in the
photos i see of you in the aether. i dreamt of you and found myself
disappointed immediately that we weren’t making love, and that instead we were sitting
in big, ratty, stuffing-expelling leather furniture, drinking beers and
talking. i wanted your cock in my mouth, but you wanted to talk. if we had to
talk i wanted to talk about something worth talking about – politics, our
beliefs, our past, you fucking my wife and four of my girlfriends, you never
fucking me, my love for you, the death of our loved ones, the things we (or maybe
just i) never got to say – but all you wanted to talk about was that game we
used to play on that shitty old computer system that sat under your window.

and you talked at me for the rest of the dream. not
with me. at me. you talked at me and expected me to listen, and when i got a
chance to speak you barely paid any attention, and i thought, “well, that is
about right,” because that it was probably how it had always been between us.
it was a sad meeting, really. not one full of pity, nor one full of regret for
imagined things that could have been, but a meeting sad because of the understanding
that our hours together in this life were probably wasted by us both. there
were others we should have spent our time on and with. and our time together was
wasted time because even when we were together we were apart. every trip you
took me on was a trip where you did your thing, and even if i did what your
money paid for, i did it alone. so a sad meeting.